'Why?
Why now?
Could it be that simple?
I suppose.
But it never is,
So that leads back,
To why now?
The only question...,
Is why.'
Gaara glanced around after saving his latest poem. Another year had gone by. A year at his current job. He never expected to make it this far. But now..., at this year mark, old feelings resurface, with vigor. He's undeniably tempted to try again. Just to do it. Just to feel something. Something that would make him realize he's alive.
He refrains though. From most dangerous behaviors anyway. Some habits though, are harder to break and he's still not ready to attempt to give them up. He doesn't know that he ever will be ready.
It's like he's always said, something's just have to be.
Inexorably, his thoughts are drawn to Sai. Anymore, he really only felt pity and a small amount of anger towards him. He pitied the other man because he would likely never make good on his dreams and die scared of death. He was angry because of how far back Sai had set him. Sai honestly, wasn't even fit for the title of asshole to be given to him. Sai was a fucking pussy, plain and simple. Though he wasn't the fun, lickable kind...
For some reason, he wants to give up. Despite everything. So much good, surrounded him, was waiting for him, but the darkness beckoned as always. It's illogical. And he sees that, but still, something within him insists, giving up, like he swore many years ago he never would, sounded fine.
He was in pain, just like before, it wasn't physical, just psychological.
He told his therapist about making himself emotionless, and she replied that due to his writing, clearly he was feeling something.
Maybe she was right. It just never felt like him. More like he was watching the world go by through a stranger's eyes. Chances were, with his DID, he was. He was the writer, yes, but he wrote from them. He could just spin it artistically.
Growing up, he was always in tremendous psychological pain. He felt everything. From everyone. He was always angry, it was easier to stay angry than to let anything else faze him. But eventually, he numbed himself to even that.
He always felt everything, from as long as he could remember. But he made himself emotionless, he became the emotionless asshole the world wanted him to be. He convinced himself he was better off that way too. When he was younger, he immersed himself in books, in fantasy worlds because it was better than his reality. He lost himself in those worlds the books created. He became convinced of their reality and began longing for those days. All he wanted, was for life to be like that. He was eleven when he came out to most of his school as gay. He didn't realize it was "bad".
And so he hated himself even more, for everything he wasn't. He had virtually no friends, he hated his life and himself. He was eleven when he first cut. For the longest time, he never drew blood. Using sharpened wooden pencils to make the cuts on his biceps. He also kept a rubberband around his right hand, snapping it every time he thought he found a boy cute or something. Trying to make himself "normal". Obviously, it was in vain. But it just added to the rage, but he learned to control it, to hide it and everything else. He was just the quiet kid. He had no friends, he didn't laugh, he didn't do anything after-school. He was nobody.
Even when an older man in his family died, he felt nothing. He felt the others' pain, but he felt nothing. It was what the old man had wanted, so why should he be sad he was gone?
When he first learned about having DID, he tried to deny it. Eventually, he accepted it, and let things happen, gladly relinquishing control of himself to the others. He didn't care.
He hadn't lost faith yet then, he still believed in Fate and Destiny. Everything happened for a reason. The Old Gods were true. He believed strongly, probably because it gave him hope. That maybe, he was someone. Maybe he wasn't just another kid that no one knew and no one cared about.
He flitted in and out of his own life heavily for the next five years. He was an asshole, he saw the world in shades of gray. He never sugarcoated anything, and so people hated him for it. But..., he didn't care, he spoke the truth as he saw it. It didn't matter if someone was hurt.
Just over two years ago..., when he got his fourth or fifth job. That's when everything really started to get bad. It turned out, he had bad anxiety, or if not him, Bo did. He never really made the distinction. He was weak. Clearly, that's what it meant. He was either too depressed to do anything, too anxiety ridden to say anything, or too angry to find solace.
Sai never understood. Never tried to.
Three times, he tried to die, and Sai never knew. He didn't catch on. He never knew.
But he couldn't die then. He wants to try again. He wants to succeed. He's just so tired. Just like every time before. He's tired, beyond it. Angry, shaking slightly with barely controlled rage. Depressed, desolate as before. He wants to fight. He wants to give up.
Nothing. Nothing is worth anything. He knows that's not so. He wants to believe it. He wants to believe he hasn't come this far for nothing.
Honestly though, what's changed?
He's told he's made progress. Come far. But he doesn't see it.
All he wants is to fucking relapse into his old habits. Go back. He wants to feel. He knows that won't help though. But he wants to try to die anyway. Maybe it's his time now.
He doesn't even know anymore. He doesn't really believe in the gods. He doesn't believe in anything. He tries, for others, not himself. He can't try for himself when his self wants to die.
Absently, he wonders if it's not possible for his alters to have certain symptoms of Borderline Personality Disorder. Certain alters, certain symptoms. He, Flaire, and Ruby are the daredevils. Bo and Drew are the attention seekers. He and Ruby are manipulative. Bo is overly emotional when she feels as though she may be abandoned. He is simply emotionally unstable when he does feel things, he feels them too much.
He has no idea if it's possible, he really doesn't even care. It's just another bloody label that means nothing in the real world.
The world is cold and unforgiving. Just as he makes himself be.
Giving up isn't an option right?
That's what he's always told himself. He can't. But why not?
A single tear falls onto his arm as he gazes at the blank space of wall across from his bed. He needs to sleep. Work will come all too soon.